Disclaimer: This post is not for the feint of heart. Also, I am well aware that the following is likely the result of my own actions. However, for the sake of consistency, weâ€™re going to blame the time change.
I ran the Nike Womenâ€™s Marathon in 2008. It seemed like a good idea â€“ curing cancer and all, via Team in Training. Mostly I decided if my AARP qualifying father and godfather could run a marathon, I could too. So I coerced my sister-in-law to join this ingenious adventure. â€œItâ€™ll be FUN, Steph!â€ I insisted. Naturally, she sprinted past the finish line, qualifying for the Boston Marathon (on her first run – ever) several hours before I stumbled across.
(Also, I was teased with the prospect of firemen in tuxedos handing out Tiffany necklaces as runners crossed the finish line. FYI for future runners â€“ you will not care about the dapper public safety servants with pastel blue boxes after 26.2 miles.)
Destroy woke up at 5 a.m. today. â€œLetâ€™s eat, Mom!â€ (Stupid time change.)
After several hours and breakfast No. 2, I realized we really needed to get out of the house or I was going to pass out on the floor. I know! We should go for a run. Destination: Grocery store to get brownie mix (and possibly milk and other healthy sustenance, but mostly brownies.)
It seemed like a good idea. Youâ€™d think I would have learned my lesson by now. You would be wrong.
I changed the muppetsâ€™ diapers and darted upstairs to grab running clothes for me, and stylish day duds for Search and Destroy. (Fuzzy footie jammies just donâ€™t cry out â€œcool.â€) I pulled the jogging stroller out of the garage â€“ itâ€™s been a while since the whole jogging thingâ€¦
In the days pre-muppet, the decision to force myself to run was enacted in five minutes by putting on my shoes. Today it involves a 45-minute prep period to get the boys bundled and stroller all set up.
I looked down and noticed fluff surrounding me. I looked past the mountainous innards of a stuffed animal to see what the muppets were doing â€“ they were bouncing on the treadmill. I began to investigate; I am saddened to say no body has yet been found. I will keep you posted should a de-comfluffing stuffed animal shell wash ashore. (Scout and Cooper are still under suspicion as well.)
Then I noticed the diaper.
Toddler mom rule No. 2 (right behind donâ€™t let the toddler stick his finger in an electrical socket): Do not leave a poopy diaper unsupervised near an adventurous toddler.
The muppets were exceedingly interested in their newfound texture. Finger-painted poop prints dotted the floor, the end table (the one Search keeps getting stuck in), the treadmill. Damnit. Destroy.
And ALL OVER LOGANâ€™S FACE.
My son ate poop. POOP, people â€“ he ate poop.
I grabbed a wipe to start decontaminating. Ew! It was one of the wipes liberated from the aforementioned dirty diaper.
(Ew. Gross. Disgusting. Icky make it go away dance around the living room.) Clearly this was a result from lack of sleep due to the confounded time change.
I stuffed two hysterically hyper muppets into the jogger and headed out for two miles of fresh air. We procured our Betty Crocker brownie mix (this is as Susie-homemaker as I get, folks) and trudged back home â€“ in the rain and a flat tire on the stroller. It was fitting.
(Ok fine. It may have been just a drizzle. But the imagery stands. “We walked kerthumped home in a slight mist just doesn’t do the mood justice.)
This morningâ€™s adventures were the perfect introduction to the afternoon refusal to nap, which culminated in non-stop screaming (I am not making this up) from 2 p.m. through 7 p.m. (Search then yanked all the blankets off the couch and made a little nest for himself. â€œCan I make myself any clearer? TIRED MUPPET!â€)
My plan was to write a post about the disturbing origins of fairy tales and eat my pan of brownies. Suddenly they donâ€™t seem so appetizing any moreâ€¦